


wanted

by ignitesthestars



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Percy is six years old when his brother wins the Sixty Fifth Annual Hunger Games.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A Percy Jackson/Hunger Games crossover in which Finnick Odair is Percy's older half brother, and everything is awful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Percy is six years old when his brother wins the Sixty Fifth Annual Hunger Games.

He remembers being excited. Remembers bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he waits for the train to pull back in, a tiny bundle of energy ready to explode. His mother tries to keep a hold of him as the door opens, but Percy can’t be contained. Stubby little legs patter across the ground, and the cameras swing in his direction just as he launches himself at his brother.

Finnick laughs, the same bright sound that Percy has always associated with him. But he has to wriggle around a little, because his brother is holding him a little tighter than normal, and his hands are shaking.

“I knew you would win,” he informs Finnick solemnly, and receives another chuckle for his efforts.

“How could I lose, with you on my side?” his brother enquires, and Percy giggles. Finnick bends down, setting the small boy in the ground as their parents make their way over. His face hidden from view for a moment, Finnick’s voice turns urgent, strange. “Don’t look at the cameras, little brother. Don’t let them want you.”

But Percy is young, and with a short attention span besides. Assured that his brother is home – never really having doubted it would happen – he looks around for something else that’s interesting, something new. Spotting a camera, he waves at it, prompting the purple woman accompanying it to totter over. Entranced by the colour, he’s unaware of the way Finnick’s easygoing smile falters behind him, just for a second.

“And you must be Percy!” she coos, crouching so she’s at his level. “My, my, you don’t look anything like how I thought you would.“

“Younger brothers rarely live up to the example of their elders,” Finnick teases, but the implied insult goes over Percy’s head. For now, at least.

“Do I detect a hint of concern from our current Victor that he might one day be supplanted?” the purple lady sing-songs. Percy has no idea what supplanted means, but he thinks you can eat it.

Finnick starts to say something, but the purple lady’s hand has caught Percy’s chin, and she’s turning his face better to the camera.

“Ah,  _there_  it is. Ladies and gentlemen, look at those eyes! It wouldn’t surprise me if this young boy grew into every bit the beauty his older brother is.” She winks as Percy starts to squirm; her nails are sharp, and he doesn’t like them so close when she’s talking about  _eyes_. “Something to look forward to!”

And then Finnick is scooping him up again, fast enough that one of the purple lady’s purple nails scratches his cheek.  _Don’t look at the cameras_ , he’d said, and Percy decides that now is a good time to listen to that. He presses his face into Finnick’s shoulder as his brother says something to the purple lady. Percy doesn’t know what, but that warm timbre is there in his voice, so he assumes it’s something good as his brother carries him back home.


	2. Chapter 2

“No way.” Ten year old Percy Jackson crosses his arms over his chest, glaring up at his brother. “I won’t do it.”

His brother grins at him, a lazy, perfect smile that just makes Percy want to punch him in the face. It’s a camera smile, a Capitol smile, and it doesn’t have any place in the training rooms when it’s just the two of them.

“Percy.” His voice is cajoling, a mixture of amusement and  _come on, baby brother, don’t be a wuss._ “It’s just a trident. You’ve used one a thousand times before.”

“On  _fish_ ,” Percy spits, and the smile falters. Just for a second or two.

Deep down, he knows it’s not Finnick’s fault. He knows his brother wants to help, that one day he’s going to get called into the Arena and Finnick wants him to be prepared. His mom wants him to be prepared. His District wants him to be prepared.

The Capitol wants him to be prepared. And Percy, who loves his brother and his mother and even his District, would rather do something - well, something really painful than do what the Capitol wants.

Nancy Bobofit calls him a wuss, too.

“Percy,” Finnick says again, sighing this time. He bends at the knees so their faces are levels. He doesn’t have to stoop as far as he used to, anymore.

Percy is growing up. And he waits for his brother to lie to him, to find the right, polite, Capitol-approved words of making this easier for him, because growing up means learning that sometimes your brother lies to you. Sometimes, the smile that you took so much comfort in while you were growing up, isn’t real.

Finnick’s eyes, the exact shape and colour as Percy’s, slide off to the side for a second. And then he’s leaning in closer, like he’s going to share a secret with his brother. Something that no one else can know.

“They’re all fish,” he says. His voice is a low murmur, and the worst part is that Finnick can’t hide the thread of humour in it. “That’s how you have to think about it. In the arena? They’re all fish.”

Percy might be growing up, but the strange, self-loathing sense of humour that most Victors wear as a shield is beyond him. He reels back, away from Finnick, away from the trident in his hand - and worse, the net.

He remembers watching the Games. Remembers watching his brother weave, remembers vibrating with excitement when the silver parachute had brought him the trident. At the time, he had been proud. And relieved, too, because his brother was the best fisherman in the village, and that meant he was going to be coming home.

But Percy is growing up. And before he can stop himself, it’s disgust on his face as he stares up at his brother, at the man trying to protect him.

At a murderer.

He shoves a stand of weapons over angrily as he leaves the training room. He is unaware of the way his brother stares after him, before sinking slowly, agonised, to the ground. The trident clatters to the ground next to him as he buries his hands in his hair, and pulls.


	3. Chapter 3

Percy stops fishing.

Not just with Finnick (who he finds he can’t look in the eye any longer), but period. He tries once on his own, but he can hear his brother’s voice in his ear ( _they’re all fish_ ) and his hand spasms around the trident. The water swallows the weapon in near silence, but the fish scatter anyway. Percy tosses the net away from him like he’s been burned and splashes in deeper, until the water swallows  _him_  as well.

He stays out there all day. As the dusk gathers around them, he spots his brother out in the sand, the trident and net at his feet. Standing a ways behind Finnick is their mother. She’s far away enough that he can’t see her face, but the shape of her shoulders says that she’s worried. 

It’s the only reason he comes out of the water that day, his limbs weak and shaking from exertion, the weight of gravity dragging on his bones. He passes Finnick without saying a word, and things continue on that way until Annie Cresta wins the Seventieth Hunger Games. 

Because there is a fast growing, ugly part of Percy that hates his brother. Straight up loathes him. Finnick, who spends most of his time in the Capitol instead of home with his family, who seems to prefer parties to working, who is in and out of people’s beds like he’s getting something for it (and it does not occur to Percy that  _someone_  might be getting something for it, because Finnick Odair has given up a lot to ensure that his brother is shielded from the worst of the Capitol’s  _tastes_ ).

Finnick, who oversees death after death after death and comes home every now and then and still smiles. Still charms smiles out of others, still cracks jokes, still tries to train Percy into the same killer he is. 

And Percy trains because he has to, but he doesn’t do it with Finnick, and he doesn’t use a trident. An old Victor called Chiron drills him through swordplay until he can slice through a training dummy multiple times before it realises it’s supposed to fall to pieces.

Their mother tries gamely to bridge the gap between the two brothers, but all Percy can see is the tightness in Sally’s face when Finnick comes home, the stress and worry carving deeper grooves into her face every time he hands over money, every time he kisses her on the cheek and heads back to the Capitol without looking back. _Just stay!_  he wants to scream at Finnick’s back, his hands forming small, ineffectual fists.  _Forget the Capitol and stay with us so you can remember how to be human again, and I can remember how to love you_.

But he doesn’t. The prelude to the next Games ramps up, and he comes home less and less until Percy knows he won’t see Finnick again until the Reaping (where he blows kisses and hugs the Capitol’s representative like they’re lovers. Who knows? Maybe they are. Percy feels sick). The easy, charming smile stays stuck to Finnick’s face right until Annie Cresta is reaped and her male counterpart sneers, because everyone knows who is going to be canon fodder this year.

Percy risks a glance at his brother’s face, and blinks. The cameras aren’t on Finnick right at that moment, consumed with the new tributes, and Finnick chooses to spent the brief reprieve on a frown, sea-green eyes tracking the small, shaking form of the girl.

Percy is pretty sure Finnick has never even looked twice at Annie. But Percy takes that frown on his brother’s face and tucks it into his heart, and when Finnick is supposed to leave for the Capitol again,  _this_  time Percy goes with their mother, even gives him a hug before he gets on the train. The cameras are on them this time, and one of the reporters is chirping something about how next year is  _the_  year (and Percy remembers that he is eleven right now, will be twelve the year after, and Finnick’s whole body goes stiff in his grasp).

Maybe his brother hasn’t entirely forgotten how to be human yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Percy doesn’t get reaped when he’s twelve.

He doesn’t expect to, and that’s the absolute worst part. Because he is Finnick Odair’s brother, and Finnick is famous for a reason. Nobody wants to see gawky pre-teen Percy Jackson be the sequel to his brother’s astounding, sell-out show.

Finnick hugs him anyway. There are cameras everywhere, and they both know he shouldn’t. But the weight of inevitability hangs over them both anyway, and so when the latest District Four tributes are saying goodbye to their families, Finnick tugs Percy to him, and Percy doesn’t hesitate to hug him back.

“You stink,” he mutters. It’s true. The tang of salt and sea is gone, replaced with some sort of perfume the Capitol’s going to go crazy for. 

Percy honestly doesn’t know why Finnick bothers. They’re going to go crazy for him anyway. His brother chuckles, easy going, but his hold on Percy tightens. Just for a second, even half that. But it’s enough.

“We all make sacrifices,” he breezes. There has to be a camera nearby.

Percy makes a face anyway.

“Look after mom.” Finnick dips his head. “And…keep an eye on Annie for me?”

There’s something naked in his brother’s voice then, vulnerable. Percy hopes to god no mic can pick up on it, even as he breaks the hug and clasps Finnick’s forearm, tightly.

“I promise.”

And then their mom is taking his place, cupping Finnick’s face in her weathered hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She murmurs something to him, and his whole body relaxes.

“What did you say?” Percy asks curiously when she returns to him, and they watch him board the train.

“The same thing I say to him every year,” Sally Jackson says softly. “That I love him, and I’m proud of him.”

* * *

Percy likes Annie a lot. They’re only really known each other for the past year, and a lot of that has involved Annie trying to heal from the damage inflicted on her in the Games, but this is Panem. Percy figures they’re all messed up, and Annie’s found a weird sort of power in wearing that on the outside.

No one asked her back to the Capitol to mentor anyone this year. They’d found her hard enough to manage for the Victory Tour. Only Finnick had been able to coax her into anything like what the Capitol wanted, and even then, not all the time.

She’d done her best. But it turned out no one was all the impressed with the best efforts of a mad girl, even if Percy didn’t think she was really all that mad.

“I don’t want this,” she murmurs, as the opening refrain to the Panem anthem plays and Caesar Flickerman materialises on screen. Her voice raises slightly. “Percy, I don’t want this.”

Even mad girls have to watch the Games. Without really thinking about it, Percy reaches out to take Annie’s hand. She has her own family, he’s pretty sure, but she’s hair with them anyway, sandwiched in between Percy and his mom.

Her grip on his fingers hurts. He says nothing, as a girl in a shimmering silver dress strides out onto stage, blonde curls bouncing in a halo around her head.

Flickerman exclaims over her beauty, and how tall she is. Percy’s of the opinion that she’s not  _that_  tall, but then the words  _twelve years old_  happen, and he swallows. Between her height and the hard look in her granite eyes, he’d assumed she was older.

“Now, I understand you have something of an unusual connection to one of our favourite Victors,” Flickerman says, smiling indulgently. “Why don’t you tell us about Luke, Annabeth?”

The girl ducks her head, and Percy would have thought it was the usual coy behaviour of District One tributes, except she definitely doesn’t look happy to be turning red. Bright red. It’s a pretty blush, he guesses. She’s lucky.

“He’s like an older brother,” she says quickly. That gets a long  _uh huh_  from Flickerman, and the crowd hoots, clearly delighted with this turn of events. “He - he’s helped look out for me a lot over the years. Especially since Thalia…”

She trails off helplessly, and the crowd falls silent, appropriately sombre. Thalia Grace had been a favourite to win, with her vibrant, take-no-crap attitude. But Luke Castellan had taken those Games, after slaughtering every last Tribute that had conspired to take her out.

And some that hadn’t.

“So you’re going to try your best for him?” Flickerman’s voice is obscenely sympathetic, but the people respond to that. “For the memory of your fallen friend?”

The girl - Annabeth - looks directly at the camera. And it’s ridiculous, Percy knows she can’t see him, but he feels like she’s looking right him anyway.

“I’m going to try my best,” she repeats, and her voice is as hard as her gaze. “And I’ll show Panem that my best is more than good enough to win.”

The crowd whoops. Somehow, this charmless girl with the princess curls has managed to convince them too, at least in this moment. 

Next to him, Annie shakes her head. “They’ll break her. They break everyone. You don’t win the Games. No one does.”

The mad girl, Percy is sure, has a better grasp on Panem than all of the rest of them.

His mom clears her throat and stands, and it’s only Annie’s reluctance to let go of her hand that makes him realise that she’d been holding it as well.

“The screen has to be on, and we have to be in the room with it,” Sally announces. “But nothing says we can’t do something else at the same time. Who wants cookies?”

It’s probably a little macabre, to bake  while twelve year old girls are getting sent off to die. But Percy wants cookies, and so does Annie, and they have a screen in the kitchen as well - for exactly this purpose, he suspects. 

* * *

Percy knows he’s supposed to root for District Four. But there’s a tiny, awful part of him that can’t help but be a little glad when Annabeth Chase from District One sticks a knife in the last Tribute standing.

* * *

He throws up right after. Annie rubs his back and murmurs quiet, soothing sounds.


	5. Chapter 5

Percy doesn’t get reaped when he’s thirteen, either.

Nancy Bobofit makes a crack about him not being pretty enough, and something in him - it just snaps. They’re on the beach; Chiron has to pull him off the girl and toss him into the ocean before he stops trying to–

He doesn’t know what. But there’s blood on his hands, and Nancy never speaks to him again. Not to insult him, not even to say his name in recognition.

“Percy.”

He stays in the ocean. It’s no surprise that it takes Finnick no time at all to get to him. Percy’s a better swimmer, but only just. He watches his brother slice through the water, and hates that even his thoughts are violent.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then what do you want?”

He says nothing. And Finnick sighs, but he stays silent as well, because they both know the list of things that Percy wants is only going to be good for getting him killed.

* * *

They all hold their breath when he’s fourteen.

It’s not something they talk about. But Percy collects hugs from his mother like seashells, and treasures them more. With each visit, Annie clings to him a little tighter, a little harder.

Finnick spends more time at the Capitol. Percy forces himself to remember that, because his brother doesn’t deserve to have Percy hid from the truth, to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what Finnick is doing for him.

He stops looking in mirrors. He doesn’t want to know if he’s  _pretty enough_  yet.

They call out someone else’s name that year. The boy dies, slaughtered by his fellow careers when the rest of the Tributes have been whittled down. Percy doesn’t throw up this time, but he wants to. The relief he’d felt at hearing another boy’s name called sours in his gut, poisoning him.

Finnick hugs him when he gets back, but it’s short, perfunctory. So is the way he wraps his arms around Sally, the quick kiss to her cheek. He takes Annie’s hand and Percy isn’t sure if he ever lets it go again.

She just smiles up at him, brushes her lips across the back of his knuckles. 

* * *

Percy saves a boy from a Peacekeeper when he’s fifteen.

He doesn’t even think about it. He knows he should, knows that he’s supposed to be the model citizen, knows that a single step out of line is going to draw the gaze of the Capitol to him like a laser sight. 

But what else is he supposed to do? The boy doesn’t look where he’s going. He’s too busy chatting to his sister, making wide, ecstatic hand gestures. The girl just looks bored, right up until the moment the boy stumbles into a Peacekeeper’s way.

“Nico, look out–!”

But it’s too late. The Peacekeeper trips, and there’s some kind of yelling about  _I told you what would happen if you didn’t show more respect, di Angelo!_  A crack, of armoured fist against flesh and bone, and Percy starts running.

“Hey, back off! He’s just a kid!”

Strictly speaking, he doesn’t  _mean_  to tackle the Peacekeeper. But it happens anyway, and Percy’s world becomes pain.

* * *

He finds out later that Finnick was with Annie somewhere. He finds out later that it was his mother who stopped the Peacekeeper. He finds out later that they were both set to be  _made examples of_ , because there’s only so much leniency you can show the family of a Victor, you understand?

He finds out later that there is a lot more leniency to be shown the family of two Victors. And that is how the world learns that Percy Jackson’s father is Poseidon, winner of the Fifty First Hunger Games.

* * *

Sally Jackson just about kills the man. Percy hears the argument, just outside his hospital room.

“–put a target on his head! What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought that you and the boy were going to be _whipped_ , Sally. Is that what you wanted?”

Silence. The tearing pain in his mother’s voice is just about the worst thing Percy thinks he’s ever heard.

“I want him alive, Poseidon. That’s what I want.”

* * *

Make up artists cover up the last of his bruising, the day of the Reaping.

“No subtlety,” he mutters to Finnick, before they have to part ways.

Finnick does not smile. Finnick’s grip on his shoulder hurts as much as Annie’s does on his hand as he pulls him in close.

They don’t hug. Percy doesn’t know what to do with his arms, and his brother just rests his forehead against Percy’s, closing his eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about anything,” he promises. “I’ll get you out of there. Everything can be bought in that place. You’ll be fine.”

But Percy hears a younger Finnick, murmuring in his ear.  _They’re all fish_. 

Twenty three other kids are going to go into that arena with him. And Percy is going to be fine, then they all have to die.

* * *

‘Ladies first’ is the worst idea of a joke. Percy considers just straight up volunteering, to get the drama all over and done with. Everyone knows what’s coming. Miles and miles and miles away, he can imagine the whole of the Capitol with their eyes glued to their screens, salivating at the prospect of this reaping.

He’s so focussed on what’s coming up, he almost misses the name.

“Bianca di Angelo!”

Almost.

* * *

The boy doesn’t cry. But he yells, god, does he yell, until Percy just wants to clap his hands over his ears, or the boy’s mouth. Something to make the noise stop, something to make everything stop.

There’s no stopping this.

* * *

“Percy Jackson! My, my, we  _are_  going to have an exciting year this year!”


	6. Chapter 6

Saying goodbye to his mother is the worst part.

Sally Jackson doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even say anything for a moment, just pulls him into the warmest hug he thinks he’s ever had, and holds him there. And Percy knows that when he’s gone, she’ll crumble, that the tears will start then and might not ever stop, but for right now she’s holding all of that back for him.

He’s grateful. He hates that he’s grateful, because his mom should be allowed to cry, should be allowed to break down about the fact that he’s going into an arena to either kill other kids, or be killed himself (and he has no idea which outcome is worse). _He_  wants to cry.

But they’re both strong for each other in the cramped little room beside the train station, so they hug in silence instead, taking what small comfort they can.

“Time’s up,” a Peacekeeper says, sticking his head around the door. A flicker of rage lights in Percy’s stomach, but he swallows it down. It wouldn’t solve anything to attack the guy right now.

 _That’s how I got into this mess_ , he thinks, but he’s kidding himself. He’s the brother of one Victor, and the son of another. He got into this mess by being born.

Sally Jackson brushes his fringe back off his face, kisses his forehead. “Remember.” Her voice is soft, but sure. “No matter what happens, you’re my son. I love you, and I’m proud of you.”

* * *

Mags comes after that. Percy doesn’t realise at first, because she brings Annie with her, and Annie all but throws herself at him. He can’t really breathe for the way she’s hugging him, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to that. Feeling like he might die.

“I love you, Percy Jackson,” she tells his shoulder. He thinks he might break apart inside. “Come back. It doesn’t matter how. Just come back.”

Mags just pats him on the hand. He’ll see her on the train, he supposes.

* * *

Chiron comes. Percy waits for some kind of advice that won’t help, some words that can’t save him, but the old man just shakes his head.

“I’ve taught you everything I can, Percy Jackson,” he says softly, and his eyes are haunted. “The arena will show you the rest.”

“That,” Percy says, scowling, “is really,  _really_  unhelpful.”

The man chuckles, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “If I could offer you any kind of help, son, I would.” But the laughter is soon gone from the room. The old man hesitates, and dips his head with a sigh. “This will sound discouraging. But remember; you don’t have to come back.”

Percy reels back, shoving at the man’s hand. “What?”

“You can only live with what you can live with. You’ll understand when you’re in there.”

He pats Percy’s shoulder again, and strides from the room. And Percy wants to run, wants to scream, wants to find some way, any way out.

But there is no way out. He can step through the door the same way Chiron did, but he’ll never come home again.

* * *

That’s it. That has to be it. Friends have never been Percy’s forte, for one reason or another. He racks his brain, but can’t think of a reason for anyone else to visit, so he steps towards the door.

“Hold on, kid,” the Peacekeeper says. “There’s one more.”

Does everyone get this much time, he wonders? Or is this a District Four luxury? A tribute with Victor family members luxury? Poseidon is going to be on that train, he realises, and tries not to think about that too hard.

Finnick is, too.

He tries not to think about that even harder, and then Nico di Angelo is in the room, looking equal parts terrified and defiant. The boy’s been crying.

“This is your fault!”

“I - what?”

The boy rubs a hand across his face, like he’s trying to clear it. It doesn’t help. “If you hadn’t interfered, the Peacekeepers would have just hit me a little bit! They wouldn’t have cared about Bianca at all!”

 _The draw is random_ , Percy wants to say.  _Maybe if you weren’t such a little shit to Peacekeepers all the time, this wouldn’t have happened. Show some gratitude._

_I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry._

“So you have to promise. You have to promise to look after her, because she’s only twelve, and I know how the Games work. They’ll kill her without even trying. Without even having to - to think about it.”

The boy’s face is all screwed up now, and he’s definitely crying again even though he’s trying hard not to. Percy runs a hand back through his hair, opens his mouth. Does the kid even realise what he’s asking? Does he understand how freaking impossible that kind of promise is to keep?

_Twenty four go in. One comes out._

_“_ I promise,” he blurts, and hates himself for it. “I’ll look after her Nico, I promise.”

* * *

“You idiot,” Finnick sighs, as he steps out of the room. His brother leans casually against the opposite wall, and has apparently been entertaining himself, by making eyes at the Peacekeeper. The Peacekeeper looks like he can’t decide if he wants to be honoured, or terrified.

“Don’t,” Percy snaps, scrubbing at his face. “I know, okay? Just don’t.”

“You haven’t made things any easier for him, Percy.”

“You know what, I don’t need this right now, okay? He’s right, she’s  _twelve_. And she’s obviously no Annabeth Chase. The kid deserves to have some kind of hope to hold onto for the next couple of weeks, though.”

Finnick sighs, pushing himself off the wall. His movements seem loose, but when he drops an arm around Percy’s shoulders, Percy can feel the tension in his body wound tight.

“It always hurts more to fall from a height, brother,” he says softly. “Than to trip when you’re already in the dirt.”


	7. Chapter 7

Percy’s left knee jiggles up and down.

He’s never been good at sitting still, and the gravity of the situation makes it even more difficult. There’s something absurd about the situation, that he’s seated at a table with his brother on his right and a twelve year old girl on his left. The father who is not his brother’s father sits opposite them. Next to him an old woman who doesn’t speak, and who probably loves him more than Poseidon ever could. There are other Victors on the train, of course - they are a Career district - but for the time being, they’ve found something else to do.

The worst part about finding out who his father was, other than the fact that it kind of signed his death warrant, is that some deep and uncomfortable insecurity in Percy’s chest wants to impress him.

The urge to throw up has been growing on him all day, and that thought only increases it. There is only one way to be impressive in the Hunger Games, and Percy can’t do that. He’s trained for half of his life for something that he intrinsically knows he’s never going to be able to carry through.

“So.” The lines of Poseidon’s body are at ease. He rests his elbows on the edge of the table, leans in with a casualness that’s almost distressing. “We need to decide on your strategy.”

He is only looking at Percy. And it’s a slow-dawning realisation that  _so is everyone else_. Finnick had given Bianca a warm smile and cracked some joke to make her giggle, but the focus of his attention has been on Percy ever since they boarded the train. The other Victors throw glances their way every now and then, but the weight of them lands on Percy alone.

Only Mags splits her attention evenly, but that’s a single sandbag against the roar of a flood. They’ve already decided. There might not be a strategy for Percy Jackson yet, but there is one for District Four. And it involves feeding Bianca di Angelo to the sharks.

“No.” His voice is harsh, like a strangers, but it’s the most Percy-like thing he’s been able to say all day. He points at Bianca. “You need to decide on  _her_  strategy.

The girl has the kind of face that could be called delicate, if it wasn’t set in such a grim line of determination. She’s no Annabeth Chase, but she’s no idiot either. She’s noticed the glances, the way they skip right over her like she’s already dead.

Poseidon’s gaze flickers over to her, and although there’s something like pity there, it doesn’t soften. Doesn’t relent.

“I’m the brother of a  _bronze god.”_ Finnick doesn’t deserve the sneer twisting his mouth, but Bianca doesn’t deserve to die forgotten and alone. “And your son, I guess. I don’t need a strategy. I just need to exist and they’ll want more of me.” He stands, his body too full of loose energy and anger to stay in one place any more. “Help her. I’m not going to play your game.”

* * *

Finnick finds him in the back of the train, staring out the windows and watching the countryside blur by. He misses the sea like a lost limb.

His brother eases onto the cushions next to him with a sigh, turning his face up to the ceiling. “Do you remember what I told you?” he asks contemplatively. “When I was trying to train you?”

“She’s not a fish, Finnick,” Percy snaps.

“They’re all fish.” The difference between his voice now and his voice five years ago is that the humour is gone. There’s something raw in its place, something that is so alien coming from Finnick Odair that it takes Percy a few seconds to place it.

His brother is afraid. His brother is  _terrified_. It comes on Percy in a rush then, a tidal wave of understanding. He remembers Annie’s Games, the freak flooding, how completely unbelievable it was that the girl had come home again.

He remembers that his brother had stayed longer in the Capitol that year.

He remembers being six years old and a woman in purple and sharp teeth grinning at him. Remembers his brother’s voice in his ear.  _Don’t let them want you_.

Finnick will do anything to protect the people he loves. And for the first time in his life, Percy understands the depth of the word  _anything_.

He reaches for him blinding, gripping his forearm. “Don’t,” he rasps. “Whatever you’re planning on doing Finnick, don’t. Not for me, please.”

There’s a pause, before his brother rolls a shoulder in an easy shrug. A lopsided grin follows, and it looks as real as anything. Has he always been this good at acting? Or is it something he had to learn?

“You’re overthinking this,” he says lightly.

“ _Finnick_.”

“Perseus.” His brother’s face turns back up to the ceiling, contemplative. “Save your energy for the Capitol.”

“You can’t–”

“Only one person comes out of that Arena. Whether or not you can get your head around the fact that it’s going to be you doesn’t really matter to me, brother. So long as it  _is_ you.”

“Finnick, there’s a twelve year old girl somewhere on this train! You’re talking about just - just letting her  _die_.”

“Yes.” Such a small word shouldn’t be able to pack such a punch, but Percy feels breathless anyway. “And I’d do worse. But if you can help me, Percy, maybe I won’t have to.”

* * *

In the end, that’s what it comes down to. Percy could take a stand. He could refuse to play the Capitol’s games, he could go on stage sullen and argumentative, he could sit down in the arena and wait to die when the time comes.

But his brother is determined. His brother is going to drag him out of that place come hell or high water (and it will be hell this time, Percy can feel it in his bones). And every roadblock Percy throws up is something that his brother will have to overcome. Another piece of himself he will have to carve out and serve up to the Capitol.

The decision doesn’t come quickly, or easily. He sits in the back of the train with his knees on his elbows, his hands buried in his hair, entertaining the thought of just staying there forever.

But that’s just another roadblock. So the decision does come, and if his eyes are red-rimmed and his face blotchy when he lifts his head, Finnick says nothing about it.

“Fine,” Percy mutters. “God, fine. What’s our strategy?”

* * *

The Capitol kills innocence, they say. Some of the District children have it stripped from them before they’re even born. Until this day, Percy would have said that he’d lost his when he was ten, staring at his brother with the word  _fish_  ringing in his ears.

Maybe that had been the start. But it’s not the glitz of the Capitol that ends it, the horrors of the arena to come. It’s this moment on the train, alone with his brother, when Percy Jackson has to make the conscious decision to put his own survival over the lives of twenty three other children.

In some ways, it doesn’t matter what comes next. Live or die, he’s already lost.


	8. Chapter 8

“We’ll set you up in opposition to me,” Finnick says. They’re back at the table in the middle of the train, but most of the Victors have cleared out. Mags and someone Percy doesn’t recognise take Bianca, and he can only hope that they’re actually going to help her.

And even that hope is pointless. There are so many awful parts to the Games, but Percy thinks the worst part is this: he forgets. It’s not in his nature to lose hope, and so it creeps into his thoughts despite everything else he knows about what’s going to happen.  _I hope they help Bianca. I hope she gets some useful advice. I hope she lives_.

But Percy has decided to win, and that means Bianca has to die. The very concept of  _hope_  is completely at odds with everything he has to do to survive now.

“Percy. Are you listening?” Poseidon is frowning, and something in Percy’s gut squirms. He shouldn’t care about disappointing this stranger who is apparently his father, but he does.

“Of course,” he mutters. His knee is jiggling again. He has to resist the urge to start pacing. What would the point be? It’s not like there’s anywhere else to go.

“You’re angry,” Finnick continues. “And you’re a terrible actor, so we’ll use that. You take after your father, I take after mine. You’re dark, I’m a  _bronze god_.” 

His mouth tips up, and it looks as genuine as any smile Percy has ever seen from his brother. The closer they get to the Capitol, the more his body language changes. He  _lounges_  in the chair, toys with random objects, manages to look somehow insolent and commanding at the same time.

If that’s what it takes to survive in the Capitol, Percy is going to die. Finnick’s right. He’s a terrible actor. And there’s not way he’s going to be able to pretend to  _not_ be disgusted with all of it.

“You don’t think that if you set me up against you, I’ll lose?” Percy points out. There’s no bitterness in his tone, even though it roils in his gut. It’s the truth, after all. And he knows better now than to be jealous, knowing the price Finnick has paid for his superiority. “Come on, Finnick. They’ll look at me, then they’ll look at you, and they’ll  _laugh_.”

“It’s a story,” Poseidon says abruptly. “The Capitol are like children, they like a good tale. The younger brother trying to overthrow the older is timeless. And Odair’s… _strategy_  isn’t the only kind that wins the Capitol over, son. They’ll appreciate the fresh outlook.”

Finnick gives a mocking tip of his head. It occurs to Percy that the two men don’t like each other very much.

“If we sent you in there trying to be another me, no one would believe it,” Finnick continues. He tosses something that looks like a paperweight up into the air, catches it again as a self-deprecating grin blooms across his face. “There is no other me. That’s just the truth. I’m the embodiment of the Capitol dreams. So we take all of your anger and disgust, everything you hate about what’s happening right now, and we point it right at me.”

* * *

Percy argues. That’s all he seems to be doing lately. It’s a  _terrible_  strategy. He loves his brother. How is he supposed to pretend that he hates him? That he wants to prove himself  _against_  Finnick, instead of  _for_  him?

He retires to his cabin with Finnick’s words ringing in his ears.  _You hate everything I stand for, Percy. Don’t act like there wasn’t a time when that didn’t extend to me as well._

He’s right, of course. Percy is learning that his brother is right about most things. Which is pretty damn awful, because his brother has a messed up worldview. Something that Percy has never, ever wanted to ascribe to, even as her grew older and understood how the world had made his brother that way.

 _Use that_. It’s his own voice now, as he throws himself onto his bed.  _You don’t have to hate Finnick. Just let them think you do._

The knock at his door scares the crap out of him. “Percy?” It’s Bianca. “Can I come in?”

“Uh - yeah, sure.” 

He’s still fighting with his blankets, trying to sit up again, when the door slides open. Bianca giggles, just a little, and something in Percy’s chest simultaneously unlocks, and tightens. He slows down, manages to extricate himself, and gestures at the empty piece of mattress next to him.

“Wanna sit?”

She nods, clambers up onto the bed next to him. He looks at her and thinks, _she’s so small_. Had he been that small at twelve? Annabeth Chase, the only twelve year old who had ever won the Games, definitely hadn’t been. 

For a long time, they say nothing. Percy doesn’t know how to get words out around the mound of guilt sitting in his throat, and Bianca seems happy to stare at her hands for a long time.

“I know what you promised my brother,” she says finally.

Percy winces.

“I want to say thank you. I know - I know there’s no chance I’m going to win this. I know I’m going to die. But I don’t want Nico having that hang over his head the last few days, you know? It’s going to be hard for him. I’m glad he can have some extra time where it’s not as hard.”

“Bianca–”

The little girl shakes her head, and in the mulish expression in her face, Percy sees something not so little. The same something he had seen in Chase’s face, the day of her interview. “We fought before I left. We were always fighting. It seems so stupid now. Wasting goodbye on being mad at each other.”

_You’ll get through this. You’ll live. It wasn’t goodbye._

But the words are all lies, and they both know that. Percy considers for a moment, two, just what the heck he can say in the face of this situation.

 _Nothing_ , he decides. He pulls Bianca into his arms instead. She’s clinging to him in an instant, like he’s a lifeline.

He’s the exact opposite.

“I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me,” he mumbles. 

It’s a stupid thing to say, but she snorts anyway, nodding her head against his chest. “Deal.”

* * *

 _Let me keep that promise_ , he begs the universe, when the steady hum of the train has rocked Bianca to sleep, and he’s staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. _Let me at least keep that promise._


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh, yes,” the stylist breathed, turning Percy’s face this way and that. His nails were long, filed into round points tipped with jewels. Each one was painted a different shade of pastel. “Yes, yes. Perfect!”

The idea of having this overgrown manchild declare him ‘perfect’ in any kind of was was enough to make Percy’s gorge rise. He was already feeling sick from the screaming crowds that had greeted them, half of it already screaming his name.

The other half had been screaming Finnick’s. It had been the easiest thing in the world to follow the plan, to allow a sneer of stony disgust to slash his mouth. Not a single cry of  _Bianca_ had been audible.

“You are, without a doubt, the perfect dark prince,” the stylist was saying happily. He had shimmering scales tattooed around his eyes, in the same pastel as his nails. “District Four royalty. Ready to overthrow your brother, and take your place as your father’s successor.”

There were so many things wrong with that sentence, Percy didn’t trust himself to open his mouth for a moment or two. Probably a good thing - that was exactly what they were going for, after all. He couldn’t match Finnick. he had to stand in contrast.

“What does that have to do with fishing,” he managed finally, flat tone turning the question into something else. The stylist fluttered his hands dismissively.

“We’ll put a crown of driftwood in your hair and give you violet scales around your eyes to really make the green  _pop_. The themes are really more suggestions than actual rules, anyway? No one wants to see you in scraggly shorts and a net, anyway.”

“The net goes in the water,” Percy points out, wondering if he can cut the whole mess short by strangling this guy. “Not on the person fishing.”

He got another handwave for his troubles. “Potato, tomato,” the stylist breezed. “My point is, if I made you fit the theme, you’d look like a hobo! My way is  _much_ better.”

For someone with such disdain for shorts and nets, the guy sure did dress him in exactly that. The net was made out of silk - which would rot in about five seconds of being exposed to the sea - and draped around his shoulders instead of a shirt. The stylist stood back and directed his minions for a solid ten minutes in artfully tearing the loose navy shorts - “Like you’ve just caused a shipwreck! Or been in one! You _are_ the shipwreck.”

They pierced his ear, threading some feathered and bejeweled monstrosity through the hole that was apparently supposed to look like a fishing lure. Percy just thanked his lucky stars the pattern they inked around his face, stylised scales in shimmering violet, wasn’t an actual tattoo.

The most time was spent on his hair, spraying things and pulling on it until it looked almost exactly the same as it had when he’d stepped off the train. “ _Windswept_ ,” the stylist announced happily, before cautiously perching a circlet on top of it all. It didn’t look like any kind of driftwood percy had ever seen, probably because it was made out of silver, not wood.

“Now, remember,” the stylist chirped. “Dark prince of the sea. We’re thinking brooding, we’re thinking mysterious. We want them  _dying_ to know more.”

He gave a strange little laugh. It was only after Percy had been herded off towards the stables that he realised that was supposed to be a joke. Lucky for the stylist. Percy wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop himself from smacking the bastard one in the mouth, if he’d figured it out while it was happening.

And then he saw Bianca, and he had a whole different reason to want to hit something.

“You look stupid as heck,” she informed him dryly, flapping her little fluro-yellow fins for emphasis. Percy’s brother wasn’t there, but he could hear Finnick’s laughter anyway, amused and bitter all at once.  _The Capitol loves its little jokes._

Bianca was a fish. He supposed he should be glad they didn’t go so far as to shove a trident in his hand


	10. Chapter 10

The opening ceremony passes in a roar of colour and sound that Percy is glad for. The overwhelming nature of all of it makes it impossible to concentrate on any one thing, which makes it easier for him to not punch the nearest person to him out of pure rage.

Given that person is a twelve year old girl, it all works out well. If he ignores the persistent urge to vomit sticking in the back of his throat.

His brother is there, after. So is his father, but Percy is doing his best to just - ignore the whole Poseidon thing. It seems like the safest way forward.

“You did good, son,” the man says quietly, clapping an awkward hand on his shoulder. Percy wants to shrug it off, along with the rush of sudden gratitude that washes through him. Who is this person to him?

He looks to Finnick instead. Whatever he wants to see in his brother’s face, he doesn’t get. The older man is doing that half-smile thing that makes it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking. Some people (Percy) have resting bitch face. Finnick’s face resolves itself into a smile by default, inoffensive and alluring at the same time.

“Finnick?” Percy prompts. He doesn’t want to have done well at this, but - a craving for your brother’s approval is a hard thing to kill, even in the middle of the Hunger Games.

Finnick blinks, and the grin widens. It’s a mockery of happiness, but Percy doesn’t think anyone else other than his mom or Annie would notice. “Not bad, little brother. Not bad at all. Come on, let’s get you and the girl back to your rooms. You’re going to want your sleep.”

“What about you?”

The grin doesn’t shift. “You know me, Percy. Things to see, people to–”

Do. The word drops in the silence between them like a bomb, and he didn’t even say it. Percy isn’t an idiot, and he isn’t naive. Finnick’s life in the Capitol has been a source of tension between them for years.

Understanding why his brother does what he does makes it worse. The anger surges back through Percy’s bones, hide tide coming in and battering the shore.

He’s helpless. Before now, there’s always been something he could do. Some way of helping, of being useful. But they’re in the Capitol now, and there’s nothing some kid from Fourth can do in the face of that. Even for his brother. Especially when his brother is doing it for him in the first place.

Finnick reaches out a hand. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to ruffle Percy’s hair, like he did when they were younger.

He smooths it back instead, dislodging the driftwood crown. His lips brush against Percy’s forehead, the definition of gentle. “You won’t see much of me the next couple of days,” Finnick says softly. “But I’ll be there on your last night. Promise.”

Something thick and heavy settles in Percy’s gut as he nods mutely, and watches his brother saunter off. The stink of his perfume lingers in the air long after he turns the corner.

Poseidon leads them up to their rooms. Percy barely makes it to the bathroom before everything he’s eaten in the past twenty-four hours makes a quick exit.

* * *

The contestants aren’t supposed to wander.

At least, that’s the impression Percy’s gotten. But there’s no written rule against it, so when the numbers on the bedside clock tick over to 03:00, he shoves the covers aside and heads for the door.

He almost expects some kind of alarm to go off, but the hall remains drenched in silence and softly glowing light. Percy picks a direction at random and walks until he finds the elevator.

 _Up, or down?_ He smacks a button at random. Down it is. The lift is sheathed in glass, and he can see the whole Capitol laid out like a maze before him, cast in a riot of colour. There are parties seemingly everywhere he looks, smoke and fireworks battling it out for domination in the inky sky overhead.

He ends up at the pool.

It’s only after he’s stripped down to his boxers and jumped in that he considers there might be something wrong with it. This is the Capitol after all. Who knows what they do to their swimming pools? But the water is cool and soothing, the quiet lap of it up against the walls a comfort as he swims back and forth.

It’s not the ocean. He’s as trapped here as he is on dry land. But at least for a little while, he can stop _thinking_.

“You’re Finnick Odair’s brother.”

About half the pool disappears down his gullet as shock steals complete control of his body. Percy splutters, going under for a second. A hand grasps his arm and he panics, flailing, sure he’s about to be held down, until some working part of his brain registers that he’s being pulled, not pushed.

“I thought people from Fourth were supposed to be like fish in the water,” the owner of the hand says dryly. Her tone’s about the only part of her his flapping around hasn’t drenched; pyjamas stick to her skin, and blond curls are plastered to her face.

“I wasn’t - you surprised me!”

“That’s your problem. You should always expect to be watched, in this place.” She lets go of his arm, sitting cross-legged on the wet poolside. The light is dim here and there’s chlorine in his eyes, but–

Percy knows this girl. Or at least, knows of her.

“You’re Annabeth Chase.”

“Congratulations, Seaweed Brain. What gave it away?”

Her tone is flat, unimpressed. Percy can feel what measure of calm he’d achieved leeching away at an accelerated rate. The snort of disgust escapes him before he can bother figuring it out if he wants to keep it in, and he kicks off the side of the pool, pushing back into the water.

“Hey!” She straightens, clambering to her feet. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“I was talking to you.”

“Is that how you make all your friends?”

His toes only barely skim the bottom. The chances of him drowning are slim to none, but he likes the feeling anyway. The idea that he could lose his footing, and go under, and not come back up again.

He’s willing to concede that there’s something not entirely safe about his mindset, right now.

“I’m not trying to be your friend,” the girls huffs. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing in the pool at 3am on one of the most important nights in your life.”

“Swimming.”

“Ugh. You really _are_ his brother.”

She says it like the words taste bad in her mouth, and Percy is over the side of the pool before he can really think about it, heaving himself out of the water. For a second, he towers over her, dripping.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The light is dim in the pool room. As close to peaceful as the Capitol gets, but it makes it difficult to judge the look in her eyes, see what she’s doing. Which is how Percy ends up back in the pool, water punching up his nose and only the vaguest impression of a pair of hands on his shins. For the second time that not, he comes up spitting water.

“What the hell!?”

Annabeth Chase is standing now, and she’s not some random girl interrupting his alone time. The light is dim in the pool room, but Percy has seen that look before.

He wonders what she’d do if he told her she reminds him of his brother.

“Piece of advice for you, Percy Jackson,” she says, and they both ignore the tremble in her voice. “Don’t make any sudden movements in this place. No one likes being startled.”


	11. Chapter 11

Annabeth doesn’t like Percy Jackson.

She doesn’t like any of the tributes, really. Not even her own. It’s safer that way. Most of them are going to die, and if they don’t…

“Bit unusual for Four to be using a sword.” Next to her on the couch, Luke drops a grape into his mouth. His arm is draped over her side of the furniture, behind her back, and she’s trying not to think too hard about that. She leans forward instead, a small furrow between her brows. Definitely focusing on the screen in front of her.

“Everything about the guy is a _bit unusual_ ,” she points out. “That’s how they’re spinning it. You can’t pull a Finnick Odair twice.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the sardonic twist to Luke’s mouth. It’s gone by the time she turns to look at him properly, her frown slipping from concentration into worry.

“What?”

He blinks back at her, blue eyes wide and guileless behind his scar. “What?”

A hand drops onto Annabeth’s head before she can push him on what the hell that look had been about. Gently, firmly, Athena pushes her gaze back to the screen where this year’s batch of sacrifices are going through the motions of their ‘first’ ever training session.

“You are supposed to be strategising,” her mother says, voice cool as ever. “Chat on your own time, please, not mine.”

Annabeth feels the anger surging up her spine, stiffening it. “Yes, mother,” she says, as a thousand bitter retorts stick in the back of her throat. _It’s the Capitol’s time_ is enough to make her gag, but she swallows it all down and watches Percy Jackson trying to show the little girl he came with how to hold a sword.

“The girl from Two’s one to watch.” Luke throws her the words like a lifeline, giving her the chance to show off while Athena is still in earshot. She sneaks him a grateful smile, as the click of heeled shoes slowly moves away.

“La Rue?” Annabeth’s memorised the names of all of them. She watches the girl viciously decapitate a projection with a spear which - okay, impressive, but definitely not how that weapon is supposed to be used. “Too emotional. She’s got that niche sponsor appeal, the ones who like bloodsports, but she’ll make mistakes.”

Luke eats another grape, leaning in. His shoulder brushes hers, and Annabeth concentrates very carefully on the screen, and her own breathing. Two’s boy fumbles his weapon, a dagger. Drops it. “How much you wanna bet she kills this Chris kid herself? No one loves a traitor, even if that’s the point of all this.”

Annabeth elbows him. “Don’t be gross. I’m not betting on this.” _I’m not like them, and neither are you._

“It’s a figure of speech, Annabeth. Lighten up.”

Luke has been doing this for longer than her. Luke doing this at all is a part of the reason Annabeth is alive right now, so she doesn’t chew him out for that. The words swirl in her head though - _lighten up?_ They’re strategising about how to best get other kids killed for their people - and only one person, of course, because the Capitol is a place of disgusting excess. Mountains of pleasure, mountains of cruelty.

It’s one and the same, here.

She leans over Luke to the fruit plate, picking out a few grapes herself. The skin resists her teeth, just for a second, before sweetness explodes over her tongue.

“Jackson’s out,” she decides, as the boy on the screen gives up on showing the girl (Bianca) how to use a sword. He leads her over to the survival station instead, starts pulling out lengths of rope.

Luke says nothing for such a long moment that she risks Athena’s wrath to look away from the screen and stare at him again. He’s leaning back on the couch, limbs spread deceptively casual. The dangerous ease to his posture makes Annabeth…uncomfortable, in a way she doesn’t quite know how to put into words. So she ignores that as well, eyes flickering up to his face.

“No,” he says finally.

Her eyebrows skate up her forehead. “No?” Annabeth is not used to having her pronouncements disagreed with. Not in the last few years, at least. “He’s soft. Look at him, he’s going to spend all his energy in that arena protecting the girl, and if they make it to the end, he’ll let her kill him. It’s done.”

She thinks about the look on Jackson’s face, after she’d shoved him back into the pool. The shock - not just that she’d been able to do it, but that she’d thought it was necessary. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that his own movements could be viewed as a threat.

“You’re missing it.” There’s an edge to Luke’s smile. She’s seen it before, but that bitter edge isn’t usually directed at her.

Annabeth grits her teeth. “Enlighten me.”

“He’s angry.”

“They’re all _angry_ ,” she snaps. “They;’ve been brought here to die. Who isn’t angry about that?”

But even as she’s says it, she knows it’s wrong. You can read it in faces, see it in the lines of people’s bodies. There are kids in that training room who know they’re going to die. Who are preparing for it already. And kids who don’t think about anything other than the glory, as well. Kids who don’t know what it’s like to have the gore of another human being on their hands. Kids who might enjoy it when they do.

Luke is shaking his head, and a hot flush of embarrassment works its way up Annabeth’s chest, settling in her neck. Wrapping around her throat, with all the other things she’ll never say.

“Besides,” he adds, eating the last grape. “It’s not what Jackson might do that we have to worry about, here.”

He lets the sentence dangle for her, and she shouldn’t take the bait, but–

Athena is listening.

“Odair,” she finishes, letting her body settle back into the couch, her attention on the screen again. Giving in. “You know him better than I do. It’s obvious what they’re pulling here, with the rivalry, but you know better than i do. How much of it’s an act? How far is he going to go?”

A flash of electric blue eyes zaps across her memory. Annabeth closes her eyes against it, forces the thoughts down until they’re only broken fragments, the letters _t h a l_ floating in her consciousness before she successfully bites off the rest.

“I’ll tell you this much,” Luke says. “I’d rather be in that arena with Odair on his own ten years ago, than facing the weight of what he’s built up since while his only brother’s in there.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Listen.”

Finnick’s hands are on Percy’s shoulders, and that’s the only thing holding his focus at the moment. His brain is filled with images from the training sessions - Clarisse La Rue decapitating a projection with her spear, the girl from District Eight smiling at the boy from District Three when she thinks no one’s looking, how small Bianca’s hands are as they work through the knots he shows her.

His eyes slide past Finnick’s face to the window behind him, the city-scape scraping the horizon. Eating up the space. The Capitol is starving, he decides, but Finnick’s hands are on his shoulders giving him a little shake, so he snaps his gaze back, scowling.

“What?” There’s a sweet, cloying scent cloaking his brother that makes him want to hit things.

“Good, remember that expression. That’s how I want you to look whenever you get asked about me. Listen, I only have a couple of minutes. I didn’t trust Poseidon to pass it on. For your private session - I want you to aim for an eight.”

Poseidon has not, in fact, passed that on. Poseidon’s advice had been more along the lines of ‘the Capitol understands strength. Show them how strong you are.’ It had produced a glow of warmth in Percy’s gut at the implication that Poseidon thought he was _strong_ , immediately soured by the compliment being partnered with the Capitol.

“…What?” Percy repeats, because strength is at least something he can grasp. An eight? Not so much.

“Seven, eight, nine, it’s the safe zone. Strong enough to ally with, not so weak that you’re a target. They gave me a nine. You can drop to a seven, but you can’t beat me. You understand?”

A couple of days and a whole world ago, Percy doesn’t think he would have. But the Capitol, the Games - there’s a certain math to the whole thing. A cold calculation designed to maximise the spectacle drawn out of any given situation. He remembers Finnick’s trident skills at fourteen, and a nine out of twelve would have been on the lower end of feasible. But if seven to nine was the safe zone…

The Capitol had wanted Finnick to win from the moment it set eyes on him, and they’d given him every tool in their arsenal to ensure it happened.

Percy swallows around the thick perfume and his own gorge. “Sponsors aren’t going to buy into the whole ‘trying to surpass his brother’ schtick if I’m already better than you.”

He’s not. But he’s pretty sure he’s better than a nine.

“Got it in one.” Finnick pats his shoulder and Percy braces himself for that typical lazy grin, but all he gets is a distracted nod. And then his brother is gone, striding out the apartment doors to who knows where.

Who knows who.

Percy heads for the pool again. There’s a distance thought in the back of his mind that he wants to rid himself of Finnick’s perfume, but that’s really an excuse. His misses the ocean. Misses the salt on the wind, the drag of the tide on his bones, his mother sprawled on the beach with a book and a floppy straw hat.

There’s no comparison between that and the pool here, but it’s water and Percy will take what he can get. The place is empty again even though it’s not yet evening, and he has a moment of paranoia that his brother has pulled more strings before it occurs to him that–

Most of the tributes probably can’t swim.

“You’re a stereotype, you know that?”

He’s been in the water barely ten minutes when he hears the voice. It takes him a couple of seconds to wipe the excess water out of his face, but some part of him has already recognised it; he’s not surprised to see Annabeth Chase dangling her feet over the edge when his vision clears. Her shoes, a pair of strappy silver sandals, sit next to her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. Anything that might have resembled patience has long since escaped his grasp, lately. He stays in the middle of the pool this time, remembering how fast she’d moved the other night. His body hurts enough from training as it is.

“Every time I see you you’re in the water, Four.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not the only Four.”

She snorts. “Right. The preteen.”

“ _You_ were twelve when you won.”

Something flashes behind grey eyes. A frustration that feels strangely familiar, although he can’t put his finger on why.

“Your friend,” she says, enunciating carefully, “isn’t me.”

Percy’s temper, already frayed to breaking point by a million and one things, snaps completely. “You weren’t you when you went into your Games, either.” He bites his tongue on the knowledge of what changed her, but Thalia Grace sits in the sudden silence between them anyway.

He remembers the coverage. The way her face shuts down says that she hasn’t forgotten it either (not that she would, not that Percy thinks you ever could). Guilt tastes sour in the back of his throat, drowning the last traces of perfume, because Percy can’t seem to do anything right lately.

Is there a right way to prepare to die? Is there a right way to prepare to kill other people?

“…I asked for that,” she says finally, looking down at her feet in the water. “Sorry. This time of year makes me tense, but it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through.”

“…’S fine,” he mumbles, treading water. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have brought - I shouldn’t have gone there. I’m just–”

“Tired?” she offers, and some of the hard edge to her voice has blunted itself into sympathy. She’s still looking at her knees. “I’m not surprised. Between the Games and worrying about Bianca and your brother, you must be exhausted.”

He looks at her sharply, because she might be from the Districts, but this is the Capitol. She lifts her head, and there’s nothing but honesty in her grey gaze as it locks on his.

“I had a friend in the Games and a Victor watching over me as well,” she says softly. “I know what it’s like.”

Words, abruptly, seem too difficult. Percy nods, dipping his chin into the water, before he manages to drag some out. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse. “It sucks.”

And they just stare at each other for a long moment, before Annabeth closes her eyes, a sigh shuddering out between her lips. She levers herself to her feet, scooping up her sandals, and heading for the exit. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Seaweed Brain,” she throws over her shoulder, before the door slams shut behind her.

Percy blinks at it for a beat, two, before a long stream of curses escapes him. He scrambles out of the pool and runs for the door, but by the time he gets there, there’s no sight of the District One Victor.

Finnick isn’t supposed to be watching over him, and Percy definitely isn’t supposed to care, even if he was. She’d played him like a damn tune, confirming their strategy with a single sob story.

Sopping wet, Percy storms back to Four’s apartment, heedless of who else might be looking at him. The door shuts behind him with a thoroughly unsatisfying hiss, and he stays in his room until it’s time for his private session with the judges.

He gets a nine.


	13. Chapter 13

Annabeth feels dirty.

It’s not just what she weaselled out of the Jackson kid. Sentiment is one of the most powerful weapons you can use in the Games, and if his mentors haven’t seen fit to teach him that, that’s not her problem.

It’s not.

The Capitol seeps into you. It takes your face in its silvered fingers and forces you into a reflection of itself. Annabeth’s hands might have been red-raw from trying to get it out, but her mother’s doctors slather a cream over them when she gets out of the shower. Good as new again.

The interviews are tonight, and Annabeth is staying far away from the tributes. She's not great at people, doesn't have the trick of turning her pride into marketability. The arrogance of a twelve year old determined to win against the odds had been endearing, but there had been no guile about it on Annabeth’s part. There's a line you have to walk as a tribute of District One, and she has a tendency to charge headfirst over it.

So Luke’s with them, along with a bevy of other Victors that know this game than any other they might have won. Annabeth sits on the couch she and Luke so often share, knees drawn up to her chest, tablet pressed to her knees, and reviews.

_He’s not coming back tonight and it’s all your fault_.

She kicks the thought away with practiced ease. Not because she doesn’t believe it, but because you get used to the voice of guilt whispering to you when you’re a Victor. Either you deal with it, or it consumes you, and Annabeth refuses to be taken over. She grips her gold-plated stylus a little tighter, and scrolls through her notes.

Chris is going to die. Honestly, her personal opinion is that their main focus needs to be on making sure that Clarisse doesn’t do him in herself out of frustration. She’s never met a tribute so hungry for the win before, which is saying a lot when you’re coming from District One. But Clarisse is a Legacy, the same as Annabeth, and Annabeth has met her father before.

Ares isn't great at mugging for the cameras either. She soothes the disquieting comparison with the fact that she, at least, has no interest in it. The stylus _tap-taps_ against the screen as Caesar Flickerman rolls into the bigger one in front of the couch. Cameras pan over the crowd, and she pulls up a few personal profiles of potential sponsors from her Clarisse file, getting the larger screen to give her close ups. She wants to see how they like the blood thirsty maniac First has pulled up this year.

Chris’ file remains untouched, as it has ever since Annabeth took the measure of the situation. Guilt flicks it's tongue along the shell of her ear; she focuses on the grinning bucko rictus of a Capitol citizen who has decided death is in vogue this year. Unlike rumors of the unfortunate tiger woman who had misjudged the stickability of the exotic animals tend, this man is certainly rich enough and smart enough to have sprung for a more temporary skull visage.

A slow burning hatred licks at the walls of Annabeth’s gut. A knock at the door startles her enough to douse that particular flame before it crawls up her throat; she hits the pause button and leaves Gamemaker Kronos’ face stretched wide on the screen as she cautiously approaches. Anyone who has reason to be in the District One quarters doesn't need to knock. Anyone who's anyone else is at the interviews. There’s another screen at the door for the camera outside, and she palms it on curiously.

The sight of a half naked Finnick Odair reclining lazily against the door greets her. He can’t see her face, but she scowls on instinct anyway. The absolute last thing she wants to deal with is some gussied up Victor off to--

To--

She hits the intercom. “What do you want, Odair?”

He holds his arms out. They shimmer faintly, highlighting the definition of his muscles. He’s draped in some sort of white cloth - you couldn’t call it a robe - with gold paint smeared over his mouth and eyelids. A crown of golden laurel leaves sits in hair that’s been teased to hell and back, completing the picture of debauched divinity. Annabeth thinks she might be sick.

“Do I have to want something to visit a pretty girl?”

_Ugh_. “I’m hanging up in five seconds if you don’t say something useful.”

“I _do_ love to be of use.” The corner of his mouth lifts, and even she can see why half the Capitol professes to be in love with this man. As unsettling as she finds it, she can’t deny he’s beautiful. “All right, how about this. I want to talk business.”

“I’m not in your line of business.”

“I wouldn’t dare. I’m talking about career opportunities.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, the faintest movement. _Of course_ , Annabeth sighs, feeling strangely relieved. There’s a long history of collaboration between their Districts, although Four has been strangely quiet about the possibility this year. That had only added to Annabeth’s curiosity about Jackson, and she picks through the information available to her, trying to assess why things might have changed now. Jackson was far from an ideal candidate - maybe it had taken him this long to be brought around to the idea of teaming up.

She hits the door release.

Or maybe it was the nine he’d gotten the day before. She still thinks he’s going to die, but she knows the tactics behind that number. The Capitol wants this show to last.

The door slides open. He strolls in like he owns the place, which is hilarious when you consider that he’s the most owned man in the Capitol. His nose wrinkles as he inspects the decor. It matches his outfit to a distressing degree, down to the minimalism.

Annabeth crosses her arms over her chest. It’s not like _she_ designed the place. “Out with it,” she huffs. “I have work to be doing.”

His chuckle verges on obscene. He leans in a little closer, and Annabeth stands stock still. This is not the first time this pla has been used on her, and she doubts very much that it will be the last. Men keep expecting her to faint at the faintest hint of body heat. 

“You and I both,” he murmurs. “And I’ll wager that Castellan has his own, ah, jobs to see to as well.”

She flinches. She doesn’t mean to, but this pretty boy has somehow manage to press very deliberately on a sore spot, and - and there are some wounds that Annabeth just has no defenses for.

“You didn’t come here to talk about Luke.”

“As a matter of fact,” he brushes past her, the warmth of him leaving a dusting of glitter on her shirt, “he’s involved.”

Everything in her screams _trap_. Her relationship with Luke has never been a secret, but his reputation has been more than enough to keep anyone from trying to use it against her. _It’s already being used against him_. But it occurs to Annabeth, as Finnick wanders over to the kitchen island and snatches up an apple, that if there’s anyone in the Capitol with more weight to swing around than Luke, it’s this man.

_Tell him to go. You know you have to_.

But she doesn’t. One hand slides into a pocket, thumbing the handle of the knife she keeps on her at all times, as she swivels to follow him. Never taking her eyes off him. _Tell him to get out_.

“Spit it out already,” she snaps, and wonders if this is how Percy Jackson felt when she weaselled his secret out of him. The barest smirk touches Finnick’s mouth, and she sneers at him. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he tsks. “You Firsts have always been a little strange. I just came by to drop off a little friendly advice. My brother won’t be teaming up with your little monster this year. I’m letting you know as a courtesy, so you don’t waste your energy planning for it.”

“You’ve written off the girl, then.”

“What was the name of your other tribute? Kros something….”

Annabeth resists the urge to bare her teeth at him. Her hand clenches the hilt of her knife a little tighter as he saunters back towards her, crunching obnoxiously on the apple. He trails glitter like dust. 

“Point taken. And the other thing?”

He’s close enough now that she has to resist the urge to learn back. His perfume comes from First, a luxury brand belonging to a member of her mother’s extended family. If she didn’t think she needed a shower before from being this close to Finnick Odair, she definitely does now.

“Stay away from my brother.” His voice is a hot, sweet wash of air over her face. She wants to stab him. “No more little pool meetings. No more watching from a distance. No using whatever it is you’ve managed to glean from him so far.”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

He’s still smiling, the picture of easy sexuality, but there’s something terrible in his eyes this is not the Finnick Odair that has been swanning around the Capitol for the last eight years. This is the Finnick Odair that killed children like they were animals and came away smiling, and if Annabeth hadn’t done the same, she might even be intimidated.

He steps back, taking another bite of his apple. “You’re a smart girl, Chase. One of the smartest, which is why we’re having this conversation. It’s not my preferred way of doing things.”

She knew all about his preferred way of doing things.

“But--” He flashed that awful, beautiful smile at her again, waving his hand around his stolen apple. “I’ll leave now. And you’ll never have to deal with me again after this, I promise you that.”

He walks on by her. And Annabeth remembers - she remembers blood. She remembers slick heat slipping through her fingers, a wild rush of animal panic and victory surging through her veins. She remembers the whistle of air escaping a pipe that was never supposed to be exposed to the atmosphere. She remembers sound ripping from her throat, a twisted wail of something that was no longer entirely human.

He leaves without delivering his threat. He doesn’t need to. _As a matter of fact, he’s involved_. Hadn’t she thought it herself?

_If there’s anyone in the Capitol with more weight to swing around than Luke, it’s this man._

She manages the walk to the private training rooms in their quarters with relatively ease, gliding past her own reflection in the balcony doors. It gazes serenely back at her, blank-faced, almost peaceful.

Explaining the activation of the training program without the surveillance equipment working takes some doing, later. But Annabeth is determined that no one will ever hear her scream again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO YOU GUYS

Percy dreams of the ocean.

The sun beats down on his skin as he tips his head back into the water, toes poking up through the waves. His hands scull in lazy circles, keeping him afloat with ease.

Something brushes against his ankle. It's easy to ignore, Percy has spent his life getting felt up by sea creatures. But then the fins are fingers and he’s being dragged under by an iron grip. He gets one last glimpse of sky before the water closes over his head, and it’s cold, cold, cold.

 _They’re all fish, Percy_. It’s his brother’s voice in his head, except when he squints his eyes open Finnick is there. He’s dressed like he was the last time Percy saw him, all white and gold and - and his brother is supposed to be the most gorgeous thing in the Capitol, and that’s what the Capitol has done to him. They’ve made him a thing, and when he gives Percy his killer smile over a bit of floating seaweed, the chill chewing on his bones only sinks its teeth in further.

 _They’re all fish, Percy._ He glances down, cheeks bulging from the force of air that wants to push itself out of his lungs, which are screaming for him to drag new air in. The hand belongs to another person, but this is a dream. It’s his mother, it’s his father, it’s another Finnick, it’s Annie, it’s Mags, it’s Annabeth Chase--

 _They’re all fish, Percy_. Finnick has a trident, as sharp and as beautiful as his smile. The water hammers at his mouth, and Percy knows he’s making sounds now, pathetic whimpers of desperation as his brother flips the weapon like they aren’t underwater, like this is the easiest thing in the world.

Sunlight filters through from the world above, changing the water from blue to green to so clear it could almost be glass. He stares, wide-eyed, as gentle clouds of red obscure the shifting colours until the ocean is gone and so is Finnick. Percy is left with a trident in his hands, and Bianca di Angelo pinned on the other end of it.

Her hand slips from his ankle. Percy opens his mouth to scream, and the blood rushes in.

* * *

It’s dark. It’s dark, and Percy can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except struggle against whatever it is that’s constricting him. His hands are empty, but they clench and unclench anyway and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s looking for a weapon or making sure he doesn’t have one. There’s a hissing sound over his head and he’s sinking into something soft and, and, and--

“Shh,” a voice soothes. “Shh, shh. Percy, it’s your brother. It’s Finnick. You’re in bed, and nothing has happened yet.”

 _Yet_ shudders through his body like a dreadful promise, but the darkness starts to resolve itself into shapes, furniture, his brother’s arms around him. Finnick holds him close, forehead to forehead, rocking him gently.

“I can’t--” Percy gaps. His hands scrabble at Finnick’s arms, desperate for something to hold onto as he sucks in a lungful of air. His head spins, but when he squeezes his eyes shut against the feeling, all he can see is Bianca’s dead gaze. “I _can’t_ \--”

“You can.” Finnick’s voice is rough as the ocean in a storm, his grip on Percy tight enough to hurt. “Think of mom. Think about Annie and Chiron and Mags, all the people who need to you to come back alive. Remember that--”

“They _aren’t fish_ , Finnick!”

Silence, except for the ragged sound of breathing. His and his brothers, he realises, working in tandem to keep each other alive. Even with his face so close, it’s impossible to discern Finnick’s expression.

“Remember that no matter who dies, it’s the Capitol who killed them.”

Percy knows without being told that those are dangerous words. That sentiments like that can get even Victors punished, that the games exist to tear the Districts apart, not bind them against the Capitol. And yet he clutches them close to his chest anyway, because he doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this without them.

It’s not just the dream that lingers in his mind. It’s the menagerie of people who had been watching the interviews last night, their faces stretched wide with delight as Percy scowled, answered Flickerman’s questions with terse, determined soundbits. It’s knowing that the same hungry pleasure will be focussed on him in the arena as he--

Kills.

A shuddering moan bubbles out of his mouth. He presses his face into his brother’s shoulder and maybe he’s crying, or maybe he’s just sobbing the agony out in waves of sheer noise. His lips refuse to form words. Finnick just holds him, slowly stroking his hair.

There’s nothing that can be said now, anyway.

* * *

“Dearie, dearie me, this is no good at all! How _could_ you have let yourself get into such a state?”

Percy stares numbly ahead as his stylist fusses at his face, focussing on his eyes. It takes the man the better part of half an hour with creams and gels and powder to deal with the redness puffing at his skin, and Percy can’t help but think it’s all going to be washed away by water or sweat or worse in the next little while anyway.

He focuses on breathing. On Finnick hugging him, on Mags cupping his cheek. On Poseidon’s hand on his shoulder, telling him simply to win. On the thought of Annie and his mother baking cookies back in District Four, and Bianca di Angelo’s face pale under the brown of her skin, nodding slowly as he whispered a plan to her.

They’d given her a five. Flickerman and her stylist had done their best with her image, dressing her in white and enticing sponsors to save a helpless child who needed them, but she was officially a target now. Percy has no intention of letting anyone take advantage of that.

 _Breathe_. His hands twitch. There’s a fine current running through him, adrenaline and terror and the urge to just _get started already_. It’s going to happen. There’s no escaping that, no matter how much his mind tries to rail against it, so he’s sick of waiting.

“And...done,” the stylist murmurs, clearly pleased with his work. “Or at least, as done as I can be with this hideous shirt and shorts combination. _Honestly_ , what’s wrong with a good toga?”

Percy can think of several things. “Is that it?” he asks tersely. “Is it time?”

The stylist waves a hand, obvious to the tension screwing every joint in his body tighter and tighter. “Almost, almost. Just let me put your token on, and then we’re ready for launch!”

“Token?”

“Of course, every tribute has to have a token. Something important to remind them what they’re fighting for, we’re not animals.” The stylist reaches into a pocket, pulls out something shimmering on a simple silver chain and reaches around Percy’s neck to affix it. “I’m quite honoured to be able to put this on you, to be honest, it’s not often a person gets to handle something that belonged to _the_ Finnick Odair.”

Not for the first time in the past twenty four hours, Percy forgets how to breathe. The chain of the necklace is long enough to tuck under the shirt he’s wearing, but he knows what this is without even looking at it.

But he does, tugging on the chain until the pendant swims before his eyes. An irregular chunk of green abalone shell, shimmering blue and green under the harsh glare of the Launch Room’s lights. Sally Jackson had given this to Finnick as his token, before the Sixty Fifth Hunger Games. It only ever came off when Finnick had a - an _assignment_.

Percy closes his fist around the shell. _Breathe_.

“That’s time!” Soft, pampered hands bat at him, pushing him towards the Launch Plate. “Remember, we’re all rooting for you. I’ve even put down a few dollars on your name, you know, I have _absolute_ faith. You’ll do great!”

“Uh - thanks,” Percy says, startled out of the weight of his thoughts by the first semi-decent thing to come out of his stylist’s mouth since they started this horror show.

The man, whose name Percy can’t remember, waves a hand like it’s nothing “You just made my career, Percy Jackson. No matter what happens, _I’ll_ always remember you.”

There’s. Not a lot he can really say to that, and the tube saves him from having to find something, sealing itself with a hiss of air. If the stylist says anything else, Percy doesn’t hear it, his brain abruptly overtaken by the detached sound of a countdown booming through hidden speakers. And then the plate starts to rise, and Percy is alone.

* * *

It’s bright. It’s bright, and Percy doesn’t move, barely breathes as he squints at the sight around him, careful not to do anything that might tip him off the plate before it’s time.

The first thing he sees is Bianca. He doesn’t know how he managed that one, given that she’s four spots counter-clockwise from him in this hell-circle, but he does. She’s staring grimly at the golden cornucopia in the middle of a high-vaulted room, the walls white and antiseptic.

 _Ten_.

Percy scans the mammoth room, trying to put the pieces together.

_Nine._

There’s always a theme, or a concept, he knows that well, but his outfit hadn’t provided him any clues.

_Eight._

He’s never seen an arena _inside_ before, but the shorts and t-shirt are starting to make sense. Annie had been given a wetsuit for her games.

_Seven._

He doesn’t remember what Finnick wore.

_Six._

_**Breathe**._

_Five._

The room is circular, with giant corridors leading out from it. At a glance, there’s eight of them, spaced regularly around the room.

_Four._

Bianca is looking at him.

 _Three_.

There’s one corridor between him and her, but another one closer to her. _Behind you_ , he mouths, hoping she can read his lips, hoping she knows what he means, hoping she’ll go along with this idea at all.

_Two._

She nods. Percy turns back to the cornucopia, focuses on the centre inside the giant horn. Breathes. Gets ready to run.

_One._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH SO IT'S BEEN A WHILE HUH GUYS SORRY ABOUT THAT it turns out writing a slaughter is exactly as difficult as you'd think!
> 
> i want to toss out a few warnings for this chapter. Annabeth's section has mentions of death, Luke's section has some minor gore & implied character death, and while there's no sexual content in the chapter, the implied sexual slavery content that exists for certain Victors in the Hunger Games world is more clearly on display in both Luke and Finnick's sections, so proceed with caution.
> 
> also, i have realised that i got Clarisse and Chris' districts confused in some previous chapters - i plan on going back to clean this up at some point, but from this point on they're District One/Annabeth's tributes.
> 
> ANYWAY UH I HOPE YOU...LIKE? THIS CHAPTER. thank you for sticking with the story !!

Percy Jackson is going to die.

“He’s good,” Athena murmurs, leaning closer to one of the viewing screens displaying the Cornucopia bloodbath in District One’s headquarters. “He’s very good.”

“He’s pulling his strikes,” Annabeth grumbles, forcing herself to pay attention. Clarisse La Rue (a ten in the end) has acquired a spear and is using it to savage effect, yelling at her fellow tribute as she does so. The boy ( _Chris_ , she reminds herself, and doesn’t think of Finnick Odair) is proving far less adept, and is probably lucky to not be on the receiving end of the spear himself. 

_Boom_.

_Boom._

_BoomBoomBoom._

The Seventy-Third Hunger Games have begun.

“And yet, he’s hardly injured. That boy is going to be swimming in silver by the end of the day, between the idiots who have bought into this rivalry play, and the degenerates who want the matching set of brothers, a scratch here and there isn’t something to worry about.”

“He’d be better off if he killed a few now. How does it help him to go easy on them if it’s obvious how good he is?”

_Boom._

Athena takes a rare break from the footage to glance at her daughter, a wry smile smile twisting her usual poise. “You have a strategic brain, my daughter, and I’ve never been prouder. But you must be sure to never forget that strategy under pressure is a skill, and one that few are equipped with. The Jackson boy isn’t ready to kill yet.”

It’s a strange mix of horror and pleasure, to be complimented by her usually distant mother on her skill at - what? Predicting murder? Not for the first time, Annabeth wonders if Athena ever considered her own Games anything more than a test of her abilities.

_Boom._

“She's really narrowing the field,” Annabeth says, instead of addressing Athena’s comment. “The last bloodbath only took out five.”

“Hmm.” Athena sounds less than pleased about the prospect. “Not that I’m against thinning the herd, but she needs to conserve her energy. I doubt very much that they’ll risk another cannibalism incident, but supplies are still going to be more difficult to find than in a more natural arena.”

Annabeth tries not to flinch at _thinning the herd_ , casting her brain about for something useful to say instead. “Poison,” is what she comes up with. “That’s what she needs to be cautious of. Look at her, no one’s going to risk a confrontation with that.”

It’s only after she's said it that it occurs to Annabeth that she basically just issued orders to her mother. But Athena merely nods her agreement, and there's that rush again.

This is the world they live in. Success is survival.

_Boom._

“How’s Luke?” she blurts. “Have we heard anything?”

A sigh. “We’ve only just begun. Kronos is likely too focussed to give him much attention as of yet.”

Annabeth closes her eyes as Percy Jackson takes two backpacks and dashes off down one of the yawning corridors. _Not what I meant_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say it. The Games have started, and little things like compassion and empathy have no place here. 

_Boom._

-

“ _Oh_ , my goodness, we are seeing a bloodier than usual opening than usual this year!”

“Well, they don’t call it the bloodbath for hygiene reasons!”

Flickerman and his co-host throw back their heads and laugh to the tune of the last canon in the background. Annie stares at them both at the screen until the bright colours seem to shift and blur into meaningless blobs.

“Right you are Acantha, although it looks like not everyone has resorted to violence. I can’t say I blame young Bianca di Angelo for darting off like that, although it doesn’t seem that she took the time to grab any supplies.”

“No, and it doesn’t seem like the sort of arena that’s likely to supply them. What do you think we’ve got going on this year, Caesar, some sort of maze?”

The screen snaps back into focus, and Annie can see the shape of massive walls from a camera overhead, glowing dots indicating where each tribute is in the arena. Her eyes pick out _Percy Jackson, 4_ finally moving away from the Cornucopia and that’s when she realises that her palms hurt, torn nails digging into the soft flesh there as her fingers curl in on themselves.

“Oh,” she says softly, tucking her hands behind her back as Caesar and Acantha wax poetic on the glory of Athenian youth volunteering themselves to fight a terrible monster in order to save their country from war. She doesn’t want Sally seeing, not when the woman has enough to worry about already. “Sally?”

They’re in the kitchen, surrounded by the detritus of cookie ingredients. Maybe it’s macabre to make treats when people are killing each other, but Annie has long suspected that it’s more about keeping hands and minds busy than anything else. She’s usually not in charge of anything more than rolling the dough into balls, a simple, repetitive task that’s well-suited to the rest of the coping mechanisms that help keep her head out of water.

But Sally keeps dropping things, so Annie has taken over the measuring and the pouring, handing bowls back to be stirred, except Sally’s forgotten to do that as well now, and something in Annie’s chest _hurts_ because this woman has always been so good at - at managing. She’s the rock of their patchwork family, and Annie is terrified that she might drift away without her, and even more afraid that Sally might be the one to go.

“Wh - oh, sorry hon.” She doesn’t try to smile, not really, but even now as Percy’s dot moves after Bianca’s, there’s a warmth in her face. “Where was I?”

It only throws the drawn corners of her mouth into sharper relief. Annie reaches out before she can really think through what she’s doing, takes the older woman’s hands in hers.

“So what sort of surprises can our heroes expect from a Labyrinth, Caesar? I can see the walls are already starting to move around - ah yes, there’s Mr Beckendorf from District Three getting cut off now. Although I’m not sure if he needs to be worried about running into people, or they need to be worried about running into him, he is _quite_ large.”

“Isn’t he just? No doubt he’ll make the favourites list if he can get past these first few hours. But no, it’s not just the walls our tributes have to worry about, Acantha. Gamekeeper Kronos has quite the creative bent, and I’d be willing to wager that _nothing_ in these corridors is what it appears to be.”

Annie wants to make cookies. She wants to make cookies because when she thinks about the Games too much her muscles start to hurt, the breath in her chest coming short and sharp, mind narrowing to the two words _keep swimming keep swimming keep swimming_ over and over and over--

But Sally isn’t Annie, and it’s Sally’s son in the arena right now, not Annie. So she squeezes Sally’s hands in hers, drawing her away from the ingredients, towards the screen she knows is in the lounge.

“We can just watch,” she says. “We don’t have to do anything else. We can watch the whole thing. And I’ll call Mags in case I - in case things get bad.”

 _You won’t miss it if anything happens to him_. She doesn’t say it because she doesn’t want to speak it into being. But she knows what she’d be like if that were Finnick in there. Knows that she’d never, ever forgive herself for leaving him alone.

“And it looks like Mr Jackson has managed to catch up with his fellow tribute! You almost wonder if it wouldn’t benefit him to - well.”

“Are you suggesting a mercy kill, Acantha?”

“Not _suggesting_ it, but it wouldn’t be unheard of, would it? I know many of our citizens frown upon intra-District violence, but there have certainly been cases where it might be considered kinder to simply be - honestly, I think merciful is a good term for it, I like that. You’ve always had such a way with words, Caesar.”

“Why, thank you! And you know, I can’t say you don’t make an interesting point, but that would hardly be a challenge for young Mr Jackson would it? We all saw his interview, and you couldn’t say that a twelve year old girl would be a good start to challenging his brother’s - oops, there goes the floor!”

“And - are those _scorpions?_ I didn’t know they came in that size!”

“On mute,” Annie decides, seeing the way Sally’s face turns white. “I’ll call Mags now.”

-

Victors are not technically supposed to be in this area, but Luke is no ordinary Victor.

And his patron, he supposes, is no ordinary man.

It’s a thought that makes his skin crawl reflexively, but Luke is twenty-three years old and the urge to claw at that feeling has long since died, alongside any number of people and things he’d once deemed necessary.

He leans back against the far wall of Hunger Games Central, arms folded over his chest, gaze flickering restlessly between the screens lining the other walls, the control systems in the centre of the room, and Head Gamemaker Kronos.

If he’s to be a slave, it pays to have a powerful master.

 _Bodies of dead tributes being used as some kind of donkey-robot monster mash up_ , he messages Athena as minutes slide over into hours. _He’s using tunnels in the floor to move some of his pets around. North-east has an area with some good supplies, there’s just a trick to get to it--_

La Rue makes it to the supply room, unsurprisingly. What _is_ surprising is that, not only does she still have that sadsack Chris along with her, she’s picked up another problem. Luke and Annabeth had discussed the possibility of teaming their tributes up with the other Careers, but their little monster hadn’t seemed to play nice with others, and the other Careers this year were either useless, or uninterested.

Silena...whatever had been one of the useless ones. It wasn’t often you got a Career that hadn’t bothered to train, especially in the District that pumped out _Peacekeepers_ , but Two had lucked out this year. 

_Don’t be cruel, Luke_. It’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Annabeth, and he sighs at it in the same way he would at her. Maybe it’s because she went through her games so young, but there’s something in her that refuses to just...depersonalise the tributes. Every year he tells her to do it, and every year it hurts her when she doesn’t, and Luke can protect her from the Capitol but he can’t protect her from herself.

La Rue’s stuffed her bag with supplies and has indicated that her two puppies should do the same. She says something sensible about not staying in one place - full of surprises today, this one - and Luke finds himself holding his breath as she moves to leave the room.

“Clarisse!” Silena Whatever’s high-pitched shriek slices through the air, much like the scythes that abruptly lurch out of the walls. Luke will give her this; she’s fast. Fast enough to shove La Rue out of the way of the spinning blades.

Not fast enough to stop her foot from getting caught in them.

There’s blood. A lot of blood, and body parts located in places that are definitely not the body, and Luke has murdered children before but never in a way that involved dismemberment, so maybe his gorge rises now when it hasn’t in the past few years. 

Someone is screaming as the floor opens up and scorpions flood the room, chased by a dog that’s really more of a bear, eyes red and dripping saliva that sizzles as it hits the stone. The person screaming is La Rue as Chris tries to drag her away from Silena, who is - well, she’s alive now, but Luke suspects that’s a temporary situation.

“ _Go_ ,” she’s panting. “ _GO_.”

He doesn’t see how the drama ends because a shadow falls under him, a cool hand sliding under his chin. Luke looks up and thinks, _bright_ , because that’s what it’s like looking at Kronos is like when he’s not playing at death. The skull visage from the night before is gone, leaving behind the vaguely handsome face of an older man with eyes the colour of gold, the rest of him dressed to complement the colour. He has rings; Luke can feel them pressing careful indents into the soft flesh behind his chin.

He swallows, thinking of scythes and what it would take to get the hand off his skin. Thinking of those fingers gripping his throat instead. Thinking of nothing at all.

“It seems,” Kronos says, “that they didn’t know the room was trapped.”

Luke bares his teeth, and even he’s not sure if it’s a grin or the panicked snarl of an animal backed into a corner. “I guess no one told them.”

The hand moves from his chin to his cheek and he holds himself perfectly still because there are conflicting urges fighting it out in his chest that say _get it off me_ , that say _lean in_. Kronos smiles like he’s pleased, and Luke closes his eyes because sometimes that feels like the only choice he has left.

-

Finnick is not watching the Games.

And sure, a part of him hates himself for that. Knowing that his brother could die and he wouldn’t know until one of his patrons deigned to pass on the information, but he’s grown used to the taste of self-loathing coating the back of his throat. Some days, he thinks maybe he even likes it.

The truth is that he’s of more use to Percy away from the screens, in the private rooms of sponsors, whispering sweet nothings and secrets into their ears as they give him silver parachutes in return. And if he wrings a few secrets of his own out of them - well. 

They’re too distracted to pay much attention.

A pattern starts to emerge by the end of the day. Whispers of Gamemakers and people who might be less than pleased with them, which is how Finnick ends up outside the quarters of one Rachel Elizabeth Dare, daughter of one of the Gamemakers. Not the Head of course, but he’ll take what he can get.. A bit young to have a taste for him, but he’s long since past being surprised by the depravities of the Capitol and how early they start.

“Finnick Odair,” he introduces himself when the door slides open to reveal a girl with a riot of red curls and a stubborn jut to her chin. “At your _service_.”

“Ugh,” she says, which is maybe the first time he’s ever gotten _that_ response from a patron, although the hand on his wrist dragging him inside is more familiar. But she drops it as soon as the door hisses shut behind them, her face nearly as red as her hair. “None of that! I don’t want you for - I don’t want you.”

A rare flicker of temper flashes through Finnick’s gut. He doesn’t have time for these kind of games, not when he knows Percy hasn’t found shelter for the night, not when he knows that his brother still hasn’t killed anyone and is hauling around a twelve year old and is vulnerable to pretty much everything the arena might throw at him at this point

His jaw clenches, just once, briefly. It’s barely noticeable, but the Dare girl zeroes in on it, nodding her head quickly. “Yeah, I thought the whole rivalry schtick was a bit overdone. You want to help your brother, right? Because I can help him, if you can help me. If you have the information I need.”

Finnick hasn’t survived this long in the Capitol without learning to read people. There’s always the chance of being tricked, of course, he’s not perfect, but taking in the girl’s expression, the way her words run together, the mix of nerves and determination - he’s buying what she’s selling, at least for now.

So he leans back against the doors, arms crossed idly over his chest. “I’m listening.”


End file.
